Because she does remind him of Lana.
Everything does.
Natalie. That’s her name. Or something with an N…?
He doesn’t remember her rank any more than he remembers her name. He doesn’t care. Doesn’t care if this is a violation of the Code of Conduct, if it’s a giant Fuck you to the Fraternization Policy, if the girl shouldn’t be here at all, in an officer’s cube late at night, in bondage, about to get fucked six ways from Sunday.
He doesn’t care about any of it anymore.
The girl meets his eyes again, her pupils dilated with arousal, her mouth open. Getting off on the crop, on Blaze’s familiar attention, so focused on her, mellow and hot. But getting off on Catch, too; on his rising discomfort as he watches her there… helpless but not helpless.
What the fuck is he doing here?
Blaze invited him. Brought him here, let him in, bound the girl while he watched. Because he wants Catch to watch, to see.
To participate?
But this is not Catch’s scene.
Take him, or I’ll whip you myself and let him watch.
That was Catch’s scene. The one he directed, for Lana, for himself. Some stranger, a nameless officer brought into his cube to fuck her.
The scene that fucked everything up.
The scene he shouldn’t be thinking of right now.
You made me feel worthless. Do you know that?
That was what she said.
Worthless…
And still, he thinks about it. Still, he watches the scene before him. His cock hard in his cargos, throbbing with the force of the Exotica vibrating through his veins.
He watches Blaze strip off his shirt, his pale, muscular chest already gleaming with sweat, with the exertion of what he’s been doing to the girl to cause all those pink lashes on her pretty skin; with the exertion of holding himself back from all he really wants to do. He doesn’t look at Catch as he moves closer, behind her. As he runs a hand over the swell of her ass, squeezes one of her cheeks and digs his fingers in. As she winces, as she gasps.
More…
And Catch keeps watching.
He watches Blaze take out his cock, hard and ready, and tease her with it until she squirms and starts to beg. He watches Blaze start to fuck her. Slow, torturously slow, as the girl begs for more.
Harder…
Please… harder…
Until Blaze gives it to her harder, so hard the desk, bolted to the floor, groans and creaks with the strain, and the girl struggles to breathe in her restraints.
And Catch is right back where he once was… that final day… fucking Lana, as she gasped and moaned for more.
“Shut your mouth…” Blaze stuffs his fingers in the girl’s mouth and she bites down, sucking on him. With his other hand he squeezes her ass so hard his fingers dig into her flesh up to the first knuckle. Hard enough to leave a hand-shaped bruise he can jerk off on later; Blaze likes to leave his mark.
Not Catch.
Catch never left a mark on Lana. Never hurt her like that. Never left more than a blush of pink and red, that one time he paddled her. Never wanted to hurt her, really hurt her.
Only wanted to please her.
Harder…
He fucks her harder. Gives it to her in a relentless rhythm, driving her open, forcing her to take him deeper…
But then he stops.
He releases Lana from her binding, buckle by buckle, kissing her everywhere he struck her. She slithers off the desk and onto the floor as he falls back on the couch. She’s crawling to him, crawling up into his lap, rubbing his cock through his pants… and when he smells her, when he tastes her as she snakes her tongue into his mouth, he realizes it’s not Lana. It’s not real.
No. This is real.
The other thing… The other thing isn’t real.
Lana isn’t real.
Lana’s gone.
And the girl in his mouth, her hand starting to rub him off through his cargos, starting to unzip him, isn’t her.
He pushes and she falls, sprawling, naked, on the floor. Nina? Naomi? He reaches for her but Blaze is in his face too fast, grabbing him by the collar of his shirt, hauling him up and slamming him against the wall.
He doesn’t fight.
“Sorry,” he chokes out. “Fuck… I’m rolling…” His tongue is heavy. His pupils are blasted open, the ceiling light so bright in his face he winces.
“No shit,” Blaze mutters. “Let’s take a fucking walk.”
The corridors are a blur. He can’t walk right.
The next thing he can comprehend, he’s lying face-down on a bed. He’s alone. It’s his own bed, in his own cube. He can tell by the mess.
He falls asleep. He wakes.
He sleeps again.
Over and over…
Somewhere in the endless night, he imagines messaging her. Her. Typing a com to her on his tablet. Can practically feel the smooth glass of the screen beneath his fingertips.
Icanstillfeelyourheartbeatagainstmyskin
He stares at the words on the screen, blinking. The neat line of tidy, glowing letters jitters and throbs, blurring together.
Real?
He blinks again. The tablet weighs heavily in his hand. He can’t remember falling asleep or waking again. Can’t tell if this is a dream. I always will, he types, then blinks, trying to clear his vision.
IalwayswillIalwayswillIalwayswill
His thumb hovers over the glowing dot—SEND—that will send the message with a single swipe.
Then he types: You’re all I ever dream about
He stares at the words, but they vibrate and blur until he can no longer understand them.
He drops the tablet and puts his head in his hands. Takes a shaky breath, so deep his ribs hurt; the lingering damage from his last fight. He lies back on the bed and stares at the amber light recessed into the low ceiling above his head, just letting it burn… until a blurred fringe of light at his peripheral vision makes him shut his eyes, dizzy.
In the darkness, angry stars explode. A kaleidoscope of colors spins in on itself, a giant light-dragon eating its own tail, around and
